Dad eyes me as he opens the door leading into the garage. “You okay?” I follow him, keeping my gaze firmly away from the laundry room. “I’m good.” He stops next to his truck, not getting in. “You sure? Because you’re acting stressed out.” Cool. Glad that’s translating. “I’m fine. I just…” I’m stressed because I’ve been sleeping with your best friend behind your back. Today I’m meeting his daughter, who is only six years younger than me, and I have this bone-deep need for her to like me. I’m terrified that she won’t like me and that Luther will call this all off. Instead of that, I go with a
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